


Alone

by AngelWings (old_fashioned_gal)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cooking, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Loneliness, My First Work in This Fandom, Pining, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19436545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/old_fashioned_gal/pseuds/AngelWings
Summary: Crowley is recalled to Hell. Aziraphale tries to cope without him, with mixed results. And with a lot of cooking.





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of this. No recognisable characters, settings or wording is my own and I am making no profit.

Aziraphale pauses with his glass halfway to his lips. “You’re…leaving?” Momentarily, he feels annoyed with himself for asking. As if, had he not said it out loud, it wouldn’t be true.

“I don’t want to” replies Crowley defensively. He slumps across the table, glances moodily out of the bookshop’s front window. The shutters are down so all there is to see are their reflections: The two of them, together.

He doesn’t want to leave, Aziraphale understands, but he has to. It stays unsaid for a horrible moment in which Aziraphale decides he _will not say it_. Finally, Crowley breathes out, “I have to though. No choice in the matter.”

Aziraphale nods mutely. They may have learnt a few tricks over the years here when it comes to making arrangements and choosing dining companions, but ultimately, they do not have free will, not in the way humans have.

Crowley looks entreatingly at him and Aziraphale feels prompted to say, “I understand, my dear.”

He doesn’t want to. Crowley is the only other immortal around, the one reliable, familiar presence over the millennia. His friend. They’ve been through so much together. Including… “This isn’t because of what happened back then, is it? The apocalypse that wasn’t?”

“Nah. If they were going to get us back for that, they’d have done it by now.” Crowley waves a hand. “Besides, Adam did a good job confusing them – I’m not sure if they even remember I was involved any more.”

“Could he…?”

“No. I asked, but he’s…It’s been so long, and his powers were never used they way they were designed to be used, so they’re fading.”

“Oh.”

“Yep: He’s a regular human. Just like we planned.”

“We were rather too successful, then?”

“Looks like.” Crowley frowns. “Except the part where we were doing it all on the wrong child.”

“Well, yes” Aziraphale concedes. Then he frowns. “I hope that doesn’t mean…Does that mean that heaven and hell will remember, once Adam’s powers are gone?”

Crowley gives him a look that implies he’d rather not have thoughts like that put in his mind. But he replies, “I reckon if the fading is gradual, the undoing would be gradual too, and I haven’t noticed any suspicions building. You?”

“No” Aziraphale replies with some relief, “No, it seems heaven is as ignorant as ever.”

“About that or in general?” Crowley teases.

Crowley won’t tease him again once he’s gone, Aziraphale realises with a pang. He asks, “Did they give a reason? Another antichrist or something?”

“No. They wouldn’t try the same trick again.”

“Everyone’s a bit lost without the great plan to follow, aren’t they?”

“Hm” Crowley seems to gather himself, sighs heavily. Adds, “And as for giving _me_ a reason, well, mine is not to reason why, mine is but to be dragged kicking and screaming to Hell.”

“I hope not.”

“Well, okay, maybe I won’t kick and scream. I’ll aim for a casual saunter. It’s only traditional.”

“I mean, I hope you won’t go at all” Aziraphale, who feels hope flare only as he says it, explains. “Couldn’t you try talking to them? Convincing them you’re best deployed here?”

“I tried. I told them how hard it’s going for a replacement to adjust. They just blathered on about restructuring.”

“Is it something to do with your work here? Would they prefer it if you…tempted people more directly, or something?” Aziraphale isn’t sure he’d be comfortable with their arrangement were Crowley to take a crueller approach to his duties, but it would be better than not having Crowley around at all.

But Crowley shakes his head. “If they weren’t impressed with what I was doing, I can guarantee they would have said. Often and gleefully.”

Aziraphale takes a steeling sip of wine. “I see.”

“I even thought about running” Crowley admits, “But this is Hell we’re talking about. There’s no escaping it.”

Aziraphale wracks his mind for suggestions, comes up empty. Centuries of reading about physics and philosophy, the art of debating, the details of every system of law written, and he can’t think of a thing that would help. “I am sorry, my dear.” He is: For both of them.

“I know, angel.”

No-one will call him that again, Aziraphale realises, until he is recalled to heaven himself. “When will you…?”

Crowley sighs heavily and takes a moment to look at him. “Tonight.”

“What?” For a moment anger – unwanted and a useless, useless waste of precious time – flashes through Aziraphale’s mind. “Tonight?! How long have you known? Why didn’t you say sooner?”

“I didn’t want to worry you, did I, while I was trying to get out of it! Anyway” Crowley glances away again, back to their reflections (the two of them, together) “I didn’t want you to be upset through our last days together.”

It has been days, all in a row. Usually, they wait a week or so between meetings, but this week, Crowley has turned up every day for the last four days. They’ve been to the Tate, the Ritz, they’ve driven out to the countryside for a picnic. Aziraphale should have known something was wrong. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“Please, angel, let’s not fight.”

No, let’s not. Aziraphale nods, flounders for a moment for something to say. Finding hope at last (He is an angel, after all) he asks, “Will you be back now and then? Tempting high profile types or for special events or something?”

Crowley regards him glumly. “If they were going to let me do that” he points out gently, “why summon me back at all?”

Hope dims. “I won’t see you then until…” Aziraphale trails off. He’s not sure if there will even be a final battle now.

Crowley finishes for him: “…Armageddon take two? Let’s hope not even then. You can wind me up like no-one else, Aziraphale, but I’m not keen to burn you.”

“And I’m not keen to smite you.”

The ground rumbles a little, the air heats up almost imperceptibly. Aziraphale turns his head slowly to the window, sees only the blinds (their reflections, the two of them, together). “Not yet.”

“I’m afraid so.” Crowley snaps his fingers and the blinds shoot up. Something is happening to the road outside, some rearranging of boiling, writhing atoms. Crowley stands. “Look after the Bentley, won’t you?” He pulls the keys from his pocket and sets them on the table. “And the plants. Don’t spoil them.”

“Yes, yes” says Aziraphale vaguely. Plants and Bentleys don’t seem remotely important. He stands up too and comes round the table.

“And always keep some holy water on hand” Crowley tells him, “Promise me.”

“I promise” says Aziraphale, barely processing what he is promising. He stares out the window again. “Can’t you tell them to wait a day or so at least? Tell them you’ve got a few affairs to sort out?”

“Already did. What do you think we’ve been doing these last few days?”

“I thought we were just enjoying ourselves.”

“We were.”

The ground trembles, knocking books from shelves. _Crowley_ , beckons a voice from somewhere. It starts in the crater opening up in the road, but reverberates around them.

“Coming, coming” mutters Crowley vaguely. He draws in a deep breath, takes off his sunglasses and sets them down on the table next to the keys. Stares at Aziraphale. “I’ll miss you” he states, disarmingly sincere.

“I’ll miss you too” Aziraphale has the sense of things spinning nightmarishly out of control. If only he’d mastered sleeping, he could tell himself he’ll wake up and this won’t be real. He manages, “It won’t be the same here without you.”

Crowley’s yellow eyes convey a depth of understanding a demon really shouldn’t be capable of. Aziraphale tells him, “I thought we’d be like this to the end, both of us here…”

“Me too, angel. I wish we had been.”

 _Crowley_. 

“I’m coming!” snaps Crowley to the crater. He opens his arms for a hug and Aziraphale folds him in against his chest. Crowley shivers, and Aziraphale refuses to believe he is crying. That would start him off too and…

And what would it matter? “Don’t” Crowley warns as Aziraphale gives a gasping sob, “You’ll start me off.”

“No I won’t. You’ve started already.”

Crowley answers with a wet giggle.

 _Crowley_.

“I have to go, angel.”

He could hold on, Aziraphale thinks to himself. He could hold on and refuse to let go.

And get them both destroyed. He lets go. As he does, some malevolent force smashes the glass in the window and they break apart.

“I’m sorry about that” says Crowley, staring around at the glass.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Nodding, Crowley steps around the table and climbs over the gaping windowsill. “Goodbye Aziraphale. It’s been…well.”

“It has.” Aziraphale nods. How do you sum up six thousand years into one word? It can’t be done. All these books full of them, but not one will do.

There is The Word, of course, the one that matters, but what is that to Crowley? These are the things that swim through Aziraphale’s mind as he watches Crowley walk into the crater in the middle of the road.

The curled lips of the crater bubble up around his feet and Crowley turns, gifts Aziraphale with a dazzling smile and raises a hand.

Aziraphale raises his own in return. He can’t manage a smile.

There is a flash of lurid light, an unpleasant crunch of tarmac, and Crowley is gone.

Aziraphale finds he is breathing very hard. He sits down. Picks up the sunglasses and folds them neatly. Picks up his wineglass and smashes it against the far wall with a shriek. Crowley’s, he takes to the little kitchen at the back and washes up carefully, sets down on the draining board.

Returning, he realises the glass from the window (and his wineglass) is still strewn everywhere. Really, that sums up Hell for you: They could have waited, or, failing that, they could have vanished the glass, but they chose to smash it. Not that it matters. It’s only glass. Aziraphale picks up the books that fell during the earthquake (which thankfully seems to have gone unnoticed by his neighbours), shakes the glass off them and puts them back on the shelves. He should miracle the glass back into the window frame now, he decides. But instead, he sits down in Crowley’s vacated chair and stares out at the night sky. He stays like that for a long time.

When dawn reaches for him through the shattered window, Aziraphale finally recalls himself enough to miracle the glass back into place. The shards from the wineglass stay where they fell and he leaves them be.

Crowley is still gone. That comes as a shock.

Aziraphale goes outside and examines the patch of road where his counterpart disappeared. It looks perfectly ordinary, of course.

The shop stays closed the first week. Behind the shutters, Aziraphale wanders and occasionally reads. The trouble is, he can’t settle on a book. He finds he can’t concentrate on his current one and so abandons it in favour of a quick succession of newly published novels that he abandons just as quickly. Next he tries re-reading some comforting old standbys, but gives up on them, too.

After one too many rattles on the door handle, he writes a sign to stick on the window: _Closed due to_

Aziraphale pauses. Due to death in the family? Not even close (They were family once, though they didn’t know one another then. All of Heaven was a sprawling, joyful family before the Fall). Besides, if he and Crowley were mortals and Crowley had died, they could hope for a reunion (There won’t be a reunion). Aziraphale writes: _Closed due to bereavement_. It is close enough. It is the situation, really, translated into human terms.

He can no longer discuss that with anyone, Aziraphale realises: The need to translate things into human terms. No-one in Heaven could understand; none of them have made their home on earth as he has. And communicating with Crowley’s replacement – who will surely arrive soon – will be out of the question. They will be a demon. Obviously, Crowley is a demon but he is different. The replacement won’t be anything like him because no demon is.

A few days into his week of bookish solitary confinement (Only his own reflection against the blinds), Aziraphale feels the crunch of glass underfoot and miracles the remnants of the wineglass out of existence.

At the start of the second week, Aziraphale goes over to Crowley’s flat. Crowley must have walked from here that last night, because the Bentley is patiently awaiting his return. Perhaps he had wanted to see the city one last time.

Aziraphale imagines that the Bentley feels surprised when he slips into the driver’s seat and fights a brief, strange urge to tell it that Crowley is gone. The fight is successful, but as soon as the urge is under control, he thinks, why not say it out loud? He hasn’t heard it out loud yet. Into the pristine car, he states, “Crowley is gone.” It doesn’t feel painful to say, just unreal. What startles him more than the statement itself is the realisation that he hasn’t spoken aloud since he said goodbye to Crowley. He tries it again: “Crowley is gone.” Then, gathering confidence at how numb he feels, “He isn’t coming back.” He flinches. Starts the engine.

Aziraphale can drive. Back when cars were invented, Crowley had insisted on teaching him. Back then, motoring was all about speeding along dust tracks in the countryside, making a lot of noise, showing off, startling the locals. Aziraphale hadn’t liked it much. Still, he can drive well enough – and strictly 5 miles per hour below the speed limit – to get it to the front of the shop. The Bentley is a little modern for him, but he works it out. He returns on foot to Crowley’s flat.

Crowley didn’t say anything about the flat itself, so Aziraphale isn’t sure what to do with it. He’s only been in it a handful of times, something that had hurt him at one time enough to drunkenly point out, “You don’t trush me…trust me, is the thing, you willy…you wily serpent.”

“Who are you calling Willy?” Crowley had slurred, “’m Crowley.” He had frowned. “Wait, wait...what was the other bit?”

Aziraphale had frowned in turn. “Wily?” he had tried.

“What even iss wily?” Crowley had asked.

“Means…You know. Cunning” Aziraphale had explained.

“Oh” Crowley had said. “Thanksss.”

“Welcome.”

“But thas not the bit I mean” Crowley had managed. “Back a bit.”

Aziraphale had pushed his chair back obligingly.

“No, no” Crowley had beckoned him back. “I mean back in your converssaon…conversration…in your words.”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale had pulled his chair forwards again.

“Say your words again but slower.”

Ponderously, Aziraphale had thought back over their recent converssaon. “Wily?”

Crowley had batted that away with a clumsy hand. “You said that already.”

“Well yes” Aziraphale had reasoned, trying and failing to focus on his friend. “You asked me to say it again.”

“No, not that bit! Bit before.”

Aziraphale had frowned. “You don’t trush me?”

“Yes, I do, angle. Angel.”

“No, I mean, thas what I said before.”

“I know, I know, I jus mean what you said before was a load of bolloss…bolloss…tescules…”

“Balls?” Aziraphale had suggested helpfully. It wasn’t really swearing, after all. He was just being helpful.

“Yes” Crowley had waved a hand excitedly. “What you said wasss a load of balls!”

“What did I say?”

“That I don’t trusss you” Crowley declared triumphantly. “Loada balls. I do, angle. Angel. I do truss you.”

“You trust me?”

“That too.”

“Then” Aziraphale had blurted out, “Why haven’t you ever invited me round to your flat?”

Crowley had stared for a moment. “Why’d you want to go to my flat?”

“Well it’s…’s’what friends do. Go round and…” Aziraphale had lost his train of thought momentarily but recovered it with, “You come here!”

“Well yes.” Crowley had shrugged. “Here’s your home.”

“Whas your flat then?”

“Jusss…Jus somewhere to keep my plants really. An’ sleep in.”

“Oh. Thas alright then” Aziraphale had said after a thoughtful pause, and, after another pause, he’d a realised that it was.

But Crowley had seemed aware all of a sudden of perceived faux pas. Gesturing expansively and spilling wine everywhere, he announced, “But you my dear Azifale…Azeefral…my dear, dear angel, you are invited to my flat. If you want to come.”

“I am?” Aziraphale had sat up straighter, excited.

“Y’are. We’ll go right now.” And so they had. And later they’d been a few more times when they were sober. But that had been all. Mainly they stuck to the bookshop which is cosy and to various locations all around London which is (was) theirs to explore.

The plants are still glorious. Crowley was often away for weeks on end and none of them want to be caught letting things slide if he returns suddenly. Aziraphale removes them and carries them in boxes to the bookshop, making several journeys back and forth. He could use the Bentley, but Crowley wouldn’t want it covered in soil. Then he transfers a few paintings to the bookshop for safekeeping too: Crowley hadn’t mentioned them either, but it seems wrong to leave them unlooked upon. Especially the Da Vinci, since Leonardo and Crowley had been such good friends. Briefly, Aziraphale wonders: Will they be reunited now? _Da Vinci is bound to be in hell – the man questioned everything_. The thought rattles through Aziraphale’s mind before he catches and discards it, berates himself for having it. What a cynical thing to think.

(Who could he have gotten that from?)

In the end, he locks the flat up and leaves it unlived in. It had already looked unlived in, in all honesty. No wonder Crowley had spent so much time in the shop.

He reopens the shop during the second week. He needs some conversation.

Writing his monthly report, Aziraphale pauses before summoning things up in nice (in the lesser known sense of the word), sterile terms: _The demon Crowley has been recalled to Hell. His replacement is yet to arrive._ There. No-one, reading that, could assume he felt anything in particular about the sudden loss of the only other immortal being living permanently in this world. Of Crowley.

There will be a replacement, Aziraphale presumes. That’s the way it has always been done: There has always been an angel and a demon stationed among the mortals, to observe and to intervene as required (and to do lunch).

But then, what if hell has decided against continuing with that status quo? Will Heaven – not to be out done – then call him back?

And if they don’t should he ask them to? He could ask, Aziraphale realises. Say he’s missing Heaven and hasn’t he been alone down here long enough? (Okay, not alone long, but they are not to know that. Besides, it feels long.) They are bound to have mercy on him, that’s what Heaven does (apart from when it doesn’t). And for all that the higher ups show nothing but a patriarchal sort of disdain for the place, there are some lesser angels who are fascinated by earth and would love a chance to replace him here.

But then. No. For all the company of immortals would be a blessing, Aziraphale can’t quite bring himself to contemplate leaving earth, and his book shop, and decent music and food. Manna is all well and good, but earth has _cake_.

Perhaps, if he asked, they would send another angel down to join him? That way he could enjoy the company of an immortal who won’t be lost to him forever (Forever. Crowley is gone forever) if one of them is recalled.

But it is not as simple as that: the legions of Heaven are, well, legion. He can’t just ask for a colleague and hope they send someone he happens to get along with. He won’t get along with just anyone the way he got on with Crowley.

He could suggest a friend from Before, perhaps, but they’d probably see through that to the loneliness behind the formal request, and call him back. Even if they sent a friend, Jhudiel, say, or Muriazelle, it is hardly fair to the friend, to be volunteered. Besides, are they his friends anymore? It’s been six thousand years.

In six thousand years’ time, will Crowley still be his friend? Will Crowley even remember him?

Well, yes, of course he will. It will only be the time they’ve had again – hardly long enough for eternity (And he knows what it is, thank you) to take its grim toll. Crowley will still remember him in six thousand years’ time.

But how well?

He should, Aziraphale decides, write a book. He’s been reading them since they were invented, after all – he should know how to. It would be a welcome distraction from recent events. He spends days in the shop jotting down ideas, barely noticing that a few people actually make purchases.

He has the starts of quite a few potential plots, is rather pleased with some, in fact, but nothing quite takes off. Then he starts to wonder, if he is to go to the trouble of writing a book, won’t Heaven expect it to be one that steers people towards the side of good? Nothing wrong with that, by definition, but it puts an unhelpful constraint on the creative process. By the end of the third week, Aziraphale has abandoned the notion.

Heaven is rather pleased that Crowley is gone. Not because they see it as a victory for the heavens, but because it is, as the memo puts it, a chance to gain a tangible victory against a “more proactive opponent”. Aziraphale feels a little put out on Crowley’s behalf.

Besides, hadn’t the way things had gone with Crowley been almost a victory, of sorts? He’d seen a spark of good in the demon and nurtured it, drawn it out. Had he just had more time, could Crowley have been saved, after all?

A preposterous idea, really. Aziraphale knows that. Really, he does. Except. Well.

Well, what does it matter now? 

“You understand, don’t you?” Aziraphale asks Him during his evening prayers. (He doesn’t sleep, but he has gotten into the human habit of prayers before bedtime). “They don’t, thank You, but You know that there was some good in him, don’t You? Is, I mean – I know he’s not dead – but You know that I miss him, don’t You?” He isn’t sure if it is a confession, in part, but in larger part, he just wants to be understood.

It was that that had drawn him to Crowley, initially; that need to be understood.

In case it works, in case it isn’t a colossal sin to pray for a demon (It probably is), Aziraphale adds, “Look after him, please. Don’t let it be too awful for him down there.” (Except, isn’t that rather the point?)

The new fellow arrives with a fuss that Aziraphale later learned caused a minor traffic incident. His aura pulsates unpleasantly, which suits him because nothing about the demon is pleasant. That, Aziraphale supposes, is rather the point of demons, but he never found it to be the case before.

Grimwell, is wolfish, with a long face covered in unfortunate patches of hair, and a definite growl to his voice the few times Aziraphale encounters him. Those times are few since Grimwell takes with some relish to places that hold no appeal to Aziraphale. He supposes he should go there more often now to thwart his new counterpart, but the demon’s unfamiliarity with the human form renders this not especially urgent. The first Aziraphale hears of him is in a report that he’s needed a new body already since no-one warned him that human bodies don’t withstand the meeting of petrol and lighters terribly well. Aside from arson, Grimwell busies himself in the criminal underworld, but doesn’t provoke them into doing much that Aziraphale judges they wouldn’t do anyway. After making some noise about thwarting, Heaven falls silent on the subject.

He could sleep, Aziraphale reasons. He hasn’t before, but how hard can it be? (If Crowley were here, he’d add a snide, _You managed it, after all_ just to wind the demon up. If Crowley were here, he wouldn’t be considering sleep anyway.) He could sleep away a century like Crowley had done, and possibly wake up to find Crowley’s absence less raw. On the other hand, he could wake up to find Crowley’s absence as raw as ever, and the world bewilderingly changed. And how would he explain it to Heaven? Crowley had just asked Aziraphale to write his reports for the foreseeable before turning in (Aziraphale had given him credit for workhouses, peasoupers and Prince Edward’s dalliance with that lady of the night) but Heaven would notice if Aziraphale simply went to bed for a century like Sleeping Beauty (Besides, who would wake him up?).

And there is the publishing industry to think of. Keeping it afloat in the digital age requires the odd miracle and Aziraphale doesn’t want to wake up to a world overrun with bindles. They just aren’t the same as real books.

No, now is not the time to turn his back on the world. Instead, Aziraphale tries to distract himself with changes in routine. Really, it is only necessary. Walking in St James’ Park, visiting the British Museum and dining at the Ritz become tainted after Crowley leaves. Each a charming place in their own right, they are nonetheless dimmer somehow without Crowley’s presence. Dining alone should be easy. Often even when Crowley was around, the conversation would lapse in any case once the food arrived, to give the chef’s efforts the appreciation they deserved. But there is a difference, Aziraphale soon learns, between not talking because the food is so good and not talking because there is no-one to talk to.

It’s not just the Ritz. He stops going to quite a few restaurants and galleries. Obviously, it is miserable to stop going to one’s favourite places without finding new places to explore (It is miserable anyway) so Aziraphale tries to keep his spirits up by exploring pubs and bars he hadn’t ever been to with Crowley.

This quickly turns out to be a flawed plan. For one thing, he and Crowley lived alongside one another in London for over three hundred years: There aren’t many places they didn’t visit in that time. And those places they didn’t visit, or didn’t visit often, weren’t really his sort of place, hence why they hadn’t spent time there. So Aziraphale spends less time doing lunch in little restaurants and more time dining in the backroom of the bookshop. This is, of course, not entirely satisfactory, so he does it less and less. He loses weight. That doesn’t seem terribly important except that it reminds him how skinny Crowley is (was – Crowley may be a different shape now). Besides, the lack of an activity that isn’t replaced is a reminder of Crowley’s absence, so Aziraphale hastens to fill the time he used to spend in restaurants. He learns to cook. He knew how to before, of course, but only the basics. For anything more than simple comfort food, he has always just miracled it up. But that’s not as fun.

Fun is definitely had at the high-end cookery course he starts attending once a week. He learns to make real bread and decorate cakes and is taught the fine art of creating the perfect curry by a guest-tutor from Bangladesh. He meets new people and starts to spend time with them outside the class too, enriching his little circle of human friends. It reminds him a little of Crowley’s long nap in the 19th century, and of how welcome a distraction the Gentleman’s Club had been. Except, he reminds himself, this is different. This isn’t a distraction until Crowley comes back. Crowley isn’t asleep; he has been recalled. He isn’t coming back.

The plants thrive in their new home, dotted around Aziraphale’s bookshop. Aziraphale wonders if Crowley named them, but decides he probably didn’t: Crowley always did show an odd discomfort with tormenting beings whose names he knew, preferring sweeping anonymous gestures to spread discord.

The only thing Grimwell has achieved so far is being murdered several times by increasingly baffled drug dealers. Between that, the incident with the fire and an unfortunate encounter with a bulldozer – reported to Aziraphale by Heaven in indecently gleeful terms – the chap has been through at least five bodies in his first four months. Aziraphale hopes Crowley isn’t getting into trouble (Then again, he is in Hell. Trouble doesn’t really have anywhere to go from there) for not preparing Grimwell better, but it is possible that Hell doesn’t particularly care how many replacement bodies are needed: A supposed human, seemingly unafraid to die is suitably intimidating, and the paperwork is a useful way to punish wayward office workers.

Aside from cooking, Aziraphale keeps himself amused by trying things he hasn’t yet. He wonders if this is partly due to how suddenly Crowley was called back (If it was sudden – Perhaps the possibility had been there for a while and Crowley simply hadn’t told him?). What if Heaven did suddenly want him back? He was going to make the most of his time here. But it is also, he has to admit to himself, another way of filling time that used to contain Crowley.

Things Aziraphale hasn’t tried yet include scuba diving. Scuba diving, as it turns out, can be learned right here in Soho. He knows he’d like it if there were exotic fish swimming around – he’s always liked the Great Barrier Reef, a place he has visited quite a few times without the need for scuba equipment – but of course there are none: just a swimming pool with adventurous humans dipping in and out of it.

He goes to the Hay Literary Festival, driving the Bentley ponderously along the M40. He had even been planning to sell a few books once he got there, but he hadn’t got himself organised in time so it couldn’t be helped. He buys a few books to make up for it.

Another thing he hasn’t ever tried is flying. Not in an angelic sense, obviously, but in the way humans invented and now complain about. He miracles up a passport and makes arrangements. (He leaves the next of kin section blank.) The flight to Norway (he needs to go there anyway for a divine revelation) means setting off earlier than he would need to if he was traveling by the usual means, and is characterised by turbulence, a snoring fellow passenger, unsatisfactory food and very little leg room. Aziraphale rather likes the novelty of it. When he returns home, he gleefully tells his neighbours how awful the flight was and they commiserate the way humans do. 

The changing seasons trouble him. As summer melts into autumn and then shifts to winter, Aziraphale finds himself remembering things he hadn’t initially thought of when Crowley left. That time they went ice-skating outside the Natural History Museum, for example, or their attempts to join in – or sometimes avoid – the humans’ various Christmas rituals.

It’s funny: He’d always thought he understood the pain, when humans he’d known over the years lamented the passing of time in the wake of a loss. But he hadn’t, really. Perhaps this experience will bring him closer to understanding them.

(It’s not worth it.)

Aziraphale finds he doesn’t like driving the Bentley. Nor, for that matter, does the Bentley seem to like being driven by him. It seems to resent being made to stick to the speed limit. Driving in London never being a walk in the park (a walk in the park being something Aziraphale avoids these days in any case), it is made all the worse when one is trying to impose one’s will on a hostile vehicle.

Besides, it is not the same without Crowley. After driving it twice (once to get to the Hay festival and once to take an elderly neighbour to church – he has to keep his end up after all) Aziraphale lets it sit unused outside the shop. But, after coming home a little worse for wear from a Christmas party and experiencing a sudden elation at the sight of it – a visit from Crowley? – and then a crushing disappointment, he finds he doesn’t want to see it every day, so he puts it in storage. The Bentley seems to resent its little garage almost as much as the speed limit, but what is Aziraphale to do? He can’t sell it. It probably wouldn’t be safe. Besides, he couldn’t. Crowley had entrusted him with it.

New Year’s Eve arrives, and Aziraphale spends it lying down on the narrow little bed he keeps in the attic room just in case, trying to sleep. The sort of human he pretends to be would, he thinks, go to bed rather than see in the New Year for the sake of it.

(He’d rather go to bed than see in the New Year for the sake of it.)

He doesn’t manage it. If Crowley were around, he’d delight in Aziraphale admitting that possibly there is more to sleep than he’d realised and Crowley has done well to learn it.

(If Crowley were around, he wouldn’t be trying to sleep: they’d be at Victoria Embankment watching the fireworks.)

Enough, Aziraphale decides. A new year is a time for change, for resolutions. His resolution is to Not Think About Crowley.

(The last person to sleep in this bed was Crowley.)

(Does Crowley know it’s New Year’s Even on earth?)

The first noteworthy event of the new year is that Grimwell discorporates for the sixth time. Apparently no-one told him the human form doesn’t withstand drunken swimming in the Thames on the coldest night of the year.

In his Further Adventures in Trying New Things, Aziraphale dyes his hair since, in six millennia, he never has dyed it an unnatural colour or, indeed, at all. After some consideration, he picks a vivid aqua blue. It takes a while to do in accordance to some bewildering instructions, and is somewhat anticlimactic, since, once done, everything is much the same except that now he has blue hair. A few of the customers glance at him askance and he hopes it has put them off buying his books.

“Whatever happened to your friend, love?” asks the elderly neighbour Aziraphale sometimes escorts to church. She is old enough by human standards that the months Crowley has been gone don’t seem all that long to her.

“Oh” Aziraphale manages, simultaneously pained at the thought of Crowley and grateful that someone has thought to ask. And how is he supposed to answer? _He’s passed on_? A possible interpretation but she’s bound to take it the wrong way, which would render it inaccurate. _He had to relocate for work_? Closer to the truth but so horribly dispassionate. “He had to move away” he settles for.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. He’s a sweet man.”

“Yes. Yes, he is, isn’t he?” (Is he, still?)

Aziraphale hosts a dinner party one damp spring evening, to show off his new culinary skills, and his circle of human friends expands a little further. For a week, it lifts his spirits, but then he gets his bill for the ongoing storage of the Bentley and that jolts him out of it. He sets up a standing order so that he won’t have to think about it in the future.

Aziraphale supposes he will forget eventually. Not for a long, long time, but eventually. Eternity isn’t so much a long game as a hungry one. Already, it has swallowed up the faces of some of his friends in Ancient Greece. If it takes one thousand six hundred years to forget people he only knew for a mere fifty or so, it will take a lot longer to forget Crowley, who was always there, right from the start. It could take ten million years or more.

The thing is, it has ten million years, and more.

Really, Aziraphale knows he should want it. He’ll be happier. Once he can no longer remember what he misses, he’ll be free to make more friends. Preferably angels – he’ll be back in Heaven by then, surely – who will definitely stick around for the ravenous march of eternity. And in the meantime, of course, he has the friendship of good humans who will almost certainly go to Heaven. The problem with that, however, is that living among mortals on the wrong side of death puts a necessary distance on proceedings. Aziraphale has learnt the hard way how painful it is to see such friends pass on when he has no idea how many more lifetimes he will remain on earth.

(The problem with that is that they are not Crowley.)

He may not like driving the Bentley, but having no-one around to offer a lift is inconvenient. Within London, it is fine, but when he is sent to Cambridge for a moment of divine ecstasy, he finds the trains difficult to manage, and so crowded at one point that he can’t read his book. Perhaps increasing funding for public transport might be interpreted as doing the work of Heaven? Or not: Upstairs simply wouldn’t understand the happiness it would spread. So instead Aziraphale buys a used Volkswagen Beetle and learns the art of driving such a modern car. It is expensive to run, but he doesn’t dine out so often these days.

“Are the plants for sale?” a customer asks.

“No” replies Aziraphale, “Most definitely not.” Seeing the customer continuing to gaze longingly at the peace lily (Spathiphyllum, Crowley had called it, but it is a peace lily), Aziraphale adds, “There are some books about flora…” and leads her safely away.

Spring mellows into Summer, and Aziraphale receives news from above that Grimwell has discorporated for the seventh time. “Ah” he responds, “What did he not realise destroys the mortal coil this time? Bleach cocktails? Over-enthusiastic shaving?”

“Something called joy riding” is the response from Cassiel (Aziraphale is trying not to read anything into the fact that it was the Angel of Solitude who was selected to call him). “That sounds rather pleasant, doesn’t it?” Cassiel continues.

“Well” manages Aziraphale, “yes, I suppose it _sounds_ that way but…Was anyone else hurt?”

There a pause and the sound of papers shuffling. “Three humans dead” announces Cassiel eventually. “Young males whom he tempted into joining him in this riding joy.”

“Joy riding” Aziraphale corrects automatically. He should have thwarted the bastard sooner. “I don’t suppose you know when he’ll be back?”

“Oh, soon I should think. Keep an eye on him won’t you, there’s a good chap.” Cassiel sighs. “At least the last one was predictable.”

“Well. Not that predictable. Not boringly so. He just had his little habits and rituals.”

“Hm? Well, anyway, keep us updated.”

He could take a holiday, Aziraphale realises one day, while making his way back from the greengrocers (Now that he cooks, he shops) one rainy day and passing a travel agents decorated with posters of markedly less rainy locations. Not a real holiday, obviously, they don’t get those (He doesn’t. There is no they) but he could incorporate some miracles. It could be nice to get away, and it has the added bonus of meaning he’d simply have to close the shop while he was gone.

The plants will be fine. The plants are used to doing a lot with few resources – He’ll stand them in a few trays of water, that should do it.

He never talks to them. That would remind him (and possibly them) too much of their previous owner. He smiles at them a lot to reward their effort.

He doesn’t have a photo, he realises one day. How, in six millennia, did he not take a photo of Crowley? (Admittedly photography hadn’t been invented for most of that time but still). What if he forgets what Crowley looked like?

Well, hasn’t he decided that would be for the best? (He hasn’t.)

And anyway he won’t forget, he tells himself. Not for a long time. He’ll be able to keep his memory of Crowley for a long time, for millions of years (a shrinking fraction of unmeasurable eternity). He’d known Crowley for six thousand years, and he’s only been gone eleven months. Closing his eyes, Aziraphale can picture the demon perfectly. He won’t forget.

(Eternity is hungry.)

Grimwell comes back and is promptly discorporated for an eight time by an overwrought, very slightly overweight rare book dealer. It isn’t pleasant (This sort of thing never should be) but it is quick. Aziraphale receives a commendation.

He takes an unambitious holiday to France and wanders around second hand book stalls in quaint little markets. It’s lonely. He cuts it short and returns to the familiar hubbub of London and his human friends.

(It has been a year).

The French books don’t sell, thankfully, but he is given a good offer on a succulent that has sprouted two extraordinary curled stems of multi-coloured flowers. He turns it down, of course.

He keeps at sleep, every now and then. Usually when thoughts turn farsighted (Eternity is hungry) in the depths of the night, when human friends are tucked unreachably away in their subconscious minds and he notices his solitary reflection against the blinds.

Generally, it doesn’t help at all. Lying down can be comfortable but really the attempts just end with him thinking odd thoughts like _Maybe I should get new blinds_ until morning comes or he gives up. ( _Maybe I should get new windows. They’ve never been quite the same since Hell smashed the glass. They look the same but I know._ )

Grimwell reappears and promptly disappears into the city’s underworld. Aziraphale doubts it will take him long to show up again; he just hopes no-one will be hurt this time.

Another Thing He Has Never Tried is attending a rave. It takes him a while to find one and, once he has, a while to realise that the unpleasant thumping sound is supposed to be music. He drinks a lot of Pimm’s from a series of pink cans and, finding that there are no bins, miracles away the mess everyone is making. He rather wishes he’d kept the blue hair. It wouldn’t be so out of place here.

A friend has her 50th at the Ritz. Generally, Aziraphale doesn’t like milestone birthdays. It is a very human concept and a brutal reminder of the blink-speed life span of even older humans. To think that fifty years is considered a long time! For him to celebrate seems unfair to them, who are not to know how brief their lives are, or that he is simply play acting when he joins in the conversations about aging and retirement that such occasions provoke. Unfair to him too, to have this reminder of how soon he’ll lose them.

For it to happen at the Ritz is particularly cruel. Aziraphale considers trying to get out of it, but that seems more brazenly dishonest than he’s comfortable being, and a part of him thinks, why shouldn’t he go to the Ritz? He shouldn’t let the place be ruined for him.

The evening goes reasonably well overall. The recently-50-year-old friend enjoys herself, which is of course the main thing, and Aziraphale isn’t so distracted for so long that he isn’t able to engage in the conversation. It is nice, actually, to be dining out again.

The food is as delicious as ever but the menu has changed. If he and Crowley were still coming here, that would be a topic of much conversation, and special visits in order to try everything. Traditionally, they’d chose different things and try each other’s until they’d worked their way through all the new dishes. As it is, the change is a relief. Traces of unfamiliarity help: Food Crowley hasn’t tried, music Crowley never heard; once these things were painful, but now they are welcome somehow. Hard to move on when the world hasn’t. These days, he looks forward to a time when there is no trace of Crowley left, no reminders. (Really. He does.) There are no tables for two standing empty, which also helps.

Of course, Aziraphale realises, if he wants to avoid reminders, getting rid of the bed might be a good start. He still hasn’t managed to sleep. And yet something about the notion still appeals, and so he keeps trying every now and then, long nights spent with his thoughts drifting like small boat atop a vast sea.

Besides, if he got rid of the bed and someone came over and somehow saw the upstairs rooms (no-one has since Crowley), it would look very odd if he didn’t have a bed.

According to Crowley, of course, the bed had already been odd. Apparently, it was odd for an adult man to have a single bed.

“But I’m not an adult man” Aziraphale had pointed out, “I’m an angel. I don’t use it, so it may as well take up as little space as possible.”

“I use it” Crowley had pointed out. “I like to stretch out.”

“Slither off back home to your king size, then.”

Crowley had shrugged and sat down on Aziraphale’s little bed. “I don’t like it _that_ much” he’d said. He’d stayed.

Autumn announces its arrival with a series of chilly showers that cause people to duck inside the shop and handle the books, and, sometimes, the plants. The plants don’t seem to care what the weather is doing outside: They have been well trained to carry on regardless and seem to barely notice winter, let alone cold snaps in autumn. Aziraphale watches proceeding anxiously from behind his desk and prays for the weather to settle into something beautiful and crisp. It seems a frivolous request, but heavenly weather, he reasons, does comfort people.

“Are you sure I can’t make an offer?” a customer asks about an orchid (the finest in London, apparently).

“You can’t” Aziraphale tells him firmly. “But I do have some books on the correct care of houseplants…” And he leads the man safely away.

Grimwell discorporates for a ninth time on a gloomy, fog-laced evening, because he hadn’t realised that the human form can only channel so much electricity before it burns from the inside out. He leaves behind quite a mess (a hypothetical one, that is. Aziraphale is sure there was a literal mess but he thankfully doesn’t have to deal with that) and several miracles are required to set it all right. Aziraphale wishes he could take bets with someone about how the idiot will discorporate next, but Heaven doesn’t approve of that sort of thing and the humans wouldn’t know what he was talking about.

If eating alone is unappealing, Aziraphale finds that the novelty of cooking for one wears off in time too. He wonders idly about opening a restaurant, but then what would happen to the books? Besides, cooking for a few appreciative people is more appealing than the demands of a busy restaurant. In a restaurant setting, Aziraphale prefers to be on the dining side of things. 

He finds people appreciative of his newly acquired culinary skills in a local soup kitchen and has an enjoyable (and virtuous) time for a while until the gentleman in charge of overseeing the volunteers points out, “The clue’s in the name, Mr Fell – It’s a soup kitchen. The guys who come in here are looking for the basics, not, err” He glances down at Aziraphale’s recipe book “Roast side of salmon with herby chermoula dressing.”

“They did seem to enjoy it” Aziraphale points out.

“Well yes, but we have overheads. And a schedule. Stick to soup from now on, eh? Something simple.”

“Simple. Alright.”

The overseer looks a little surprised when he returns the following week to find Aziraphale serving up gourmet cheddar and beer soup with a bacon and chive topping.

“I don’t see what the matter is” Aziraphale reasons. “You can’t get simpler than cheddar and beer.”

“What’s wrong with an industrial tin of Heinz?” the overseer demands.

“Oh dear.”

After a few such put downs, Aziraphale decides that feeding the hungry directly is not for him, and goes back to putting money into the church appeal instead, which doesn’t fill up his Wednesday nights. Still, not to be discouraged he sets about organising another dinner party instead.

Dinner parties are one thing, but it is hard to find anyone willing to go to a concert with him. Human lives are so busy.

Sleep still evades him. Is he certain, he finds himself wondering, that all humans sleep with their eyes closed? Generally, they are diverse and varied creatures: Surely they don’t all sleep the same way? Perhaps his human form is one that responds better to open-eyed sleep. Aziraphale experiments with lying in his single bed, staring up at the ceiling. Every time a car goes past outside, the beam of its headlights race along the wall and around the light fittings. (Maybe he ought to paint the ceiling?)

With no arrangement to ease the burden, Aziraphale finds himself travelling more as winter sets in, and Heaven starts some end of year productivity initiative. He drives his Beetle to Durham for miracles, Cheshire for divine interventions and to Leeds for moments of godly inspiration. He finds himself in motorway service stations all over the country, eating indifferent food and staring out at passing traffic, occasionally catching glimpses of his own reflection, looking what humans would call tired (He supposes it is a type of tired).

He makes a point of visiting churches in the new places he visits, occasionally even performing small miracles, like strengthening a crumbling pillar or putting a new shine on the stained glass windows. He sits in the quiet pews and hopes for a moment of closeness with the Almighty which isn’t really possible on earth.

When the initiative passes, targets apparently met, Aziraphale sees to the shop. Christmas shoppers are out in force, so it is a good time to be closed for refurbishments. He paints the ceilings. He miracle them a fresh coat of paint but this way is more fun. He listens to Christmas music over the radio as he works, while disappointed shoppers rattle the door handle and then go away to try somewhere else.

New Year’s Eve again, and again he tries sleep. This time, much to his surprise, it works. Sleep, it turns out, is a blank, dark space of absence, a relief from thought. It is warm and heavy. He doesn’t dream.

No New Years’ resolutions this year, and no sale, no matter how many people turn up expecting discounted prices because everywhere else is doing it. Instead he goes shopping himself, treating himself to tartan pyjamas from John Lewis now that he is a sleeper.

Not that he’ll do it every night of course – that would be excessive. But putting them on of an evening creates a sense of comforting routine.

He wishes he could tell someone about his achievement, but humans sleep the same way they breathe and blink, and Heaven doesn’t approve of such frivolities.

Sleep is not the only frivolity he engages in. He considers another holiday, somewhere sunny, preferably. But then he remembers how lonely France was, and he puts the travel brochures in the recycling bin.

Instead he tries another thing he hasn’t yet: Reading comics. Or rather, reading graphic novels – there is a difference, according to the young man he speaks to in a fascinating little shop which sells both. He is pleasantly surprised to find many tackle high-brow topics and reach a readership that some books might miss. He buys quite a few and, once he’s done reading them, adds them to the volumes in the shop, on an out-of-the-way shelf where they are unlikely to be noticed and purchased.

He still doesn’t dream, and doesn’t especially want to until one day, while reading around the topic, it occurs to him that he might dream about Crowley. That would feel like seeing him again, wouldn’t it? Of course, waking up would be a disappointment, but then, he might dream again, mightn’t he? That night, he tries to steer his mind toward dreams by picturing Crowley. When his mind settles on an image, Crowley is standing in the British Museum of all places. Aziraphale finds he can’t quite get his friend’s face right. Which is ridiculous. It’s hasn’t even been two years. But the world is so full of faces and they keep getting in the way. Over the next few weeks, he tries again. He’ll think he has Crowley’s nose and lips for a moment and then he’ll realise his drifting mind has supplanted them with the features of a television presenter he saw on a history documentary, or a with the nice young man in the flower shop across the road. Already he has to concentrate, to tune out a jumble of more recent memories out in order to see Crowley clearly.

(He shouldn’t want to see Crowley clearly. He shouldn’t want to dream about him. He should want to forget. He doesn’t, but he should.)

Crowley’s voice is easier. Aziraphale can remember exactly what he sounded like if he has him say common phrases like, _Cheer up, angel_ or, _Let’s do lunch_.

(Why didn’t he take a photo?)

One night, he treats himself to a dinner in a newly-opened Sudanese restaurant in Islington. He hopes he might have got the hang, somehow, of dinning alone now he is more used to being alone, but he hasn’t. Getting his book out seems rude, but there’s no-one to talk to. He doesn’t savour the food, leaves as soon as he can.

When he is woken (woken! It is a bewildering experience, a human one) one night by a storm, Aziraphale treats it like an unexpected guest, abandoning sleep to cocoa, and sit and listen to it.

(Crowley always loved storms.)

Grimwell’s tenth incorporation is rather dramatic: The demon starts a riot that kills only himself. Aziraphale joins the clean-up effort and marvels at how very good humans are at coming together in a time of crisis. There is a net gain, for Heaven, he judges, looking around at the good-natured people doing their best to help. He wonders whether Crowley was on to something with his traffic jams and computer glitches: small, day-to-day inconveniences may not cause the suffering wrought by violence, but they do not have the undemonic side effect of a collective, life-affirming response either. Or maybe it is simply that Crowley was a gentle soul, deep down.

He works his way steadily through recipes, even if eating alone, at the little breakfast bar in his cramped kitchen feels strange ( _Cheer up, angel_ ). He carefully searches the shop for recipe books and buys new ones. Some of the meals he makes are half-remembered from long ago, others are more recently created. Some, he has never had in a restaurant, so he isn’t entirely sure he has got them right. Occasionally, he even tries inventing recipes of his own, though he isn’t sure he is very good at it (and there is no-one around to tell him). He will have to host another dinner party soon.

When he notices that everywhere is having a sale even though it isn’t January, Aziraphale wonders if Grimwell has re-incorporated having learnt some of Crowley’s subtle art. All the more so when he discovers these are Easter sales. Easter sales! Sales to mark the sacrifice and resurrection of a man who spurned material wealth! There must be demonic influence involved. But a conversation with a fellow shopkeeper reveals that sales have been an all year thing for a while now. Aziraphale, never one to particularly want to sell anything, hasn’t noticed. He wonders if this was Crowley’s doing but, deep down, is inclined to think that it is another case of humans being humans. He doesn’t have a sale himself, of course, but no-one is particularly surprised by that. His is not a sales sort of shop. He closes for the week and drives his neighbour to church in the Beetle.

On nights when he isn’t sleeping, he reads, as he always has when humans are at their rest. He has learnt to ignore his lonely reflection on the grounds that he has always been alone at night. Crowley only ever visited in the day, though he occasionally stayed into the night. But it is not so much the fact that Crowley isn’t here now as the fact that he never will be that makes night seem like a lonely time, because there is no escaping it at night, no distraction via human chatter. Briefly, Aziraphale considers again the possibility of sleeping every night, but he dismisses the idea as excessive. Besides, it would cut into his reading time.

A neighbour with three children and no husband (He should disapprove but she seems such a lovely young lady and he’s never really understood why Heaven needs rules about those sorts of things) is looking for someone to help her manage the children for a day at Legoland, and Aziraphale agrees on the grounds that he has never been to a theme park. There is, he learns, a reason for that. The day is unusually warm, even for late spring, the food is appalling and the rides are overpriced. He could miracle some money, but he tries to avoid that and besides, he is using all his power miracling away the nausea. Humans, it seems, will queue for hours and pay good money to feel sick. On balance, Aziraphale decides as he drives them home, perhaps it would be best not to seek out new experiences quite so enthusiastically for a while. 

He hasn’t seen Grimwell since his last discorporation. Aziraphale prefers avoidance to smiting, but decides after a while to search for the demon, wandering around parts of the city where most people would expect a mildly lost-seeming, well-to-do looking gent in a bowtie to be mugged, but of course he isn’t. There is no sign of Grimwell. Aziraphale is a little relieved: Much as he should know where his adversary is, he didn’t particularly want to fight him, and it might have come to that, if the demon had spotted him. The last smiting incident had been for those poor young men in that stolen car, but Grimwell hasn’t killed anyone else directly since (as far as Aziraphale knows) and destroying the demon’s earthly body is rather pointless when Hell seems to have an endless supply of new ones. As to smiting his true form, well, that would be possible, but what sort of precedent would it set? Hell might then replace Grimwell with someone willing to destroy Aziraphale. Much as Aziraphale has confidence (to an extent), in his ability to defend himself, it would be very tiresome.

When summer arrives suddenly with what the news is calling a mini heat wave, Aziraphale finds all the standing fans are out of stock in the local shops, so decides to close for a week for health and safety reasons. The plants mainly carry on regardless though he notices with some relief that a few are now relaxed enough to wilt a little. Unable to get comfortable inside – the shop is too empty and the upstairs rooms too stuffy – Aziraphale offers a parting smile to the plants and heads out. He takes the tube to Kensington Gardens and eventually settles to read a book in the shade. St James’ Park is closer but he has no plans to go there any time soon.

On the way home, he buys lunch and bottled water for a homeless man and briefly contemplates inviting him back to the shop, but decides against it. There is too much risk of him stumbling on some out-of-bounds ethereal symbol or accidently ringing the Metatron.

It’s a shame, though: Aziraphale could have cooked for him. With the weather this warm, no-one seems to want a dinner party. Aziraphale has been invited to barbeques, but he honestly can’t see the appeal, and tends to put such invitations off with an excuse, generally saying that he has an appointment which he then makes, so that it isn’t a lie. Appointments tend to be with booksellers, so the French books and graphic novels are joined by a selection of other newcomers. Between plants and books, it is getting a little crowded – Aziraphale may even have to sell a few (Books, that is, not plants).

Or he could store more upstairs if he stacked some on the bed. But he quite likes sleep now he’s got the hang of it.

“There’s no sign of Grimwell” he admits when heaven checks in. “I do hope I haven’t missed him while I was taking part in the miracle initiative.” Or shopping, or painting the ceiling.

“We’re still gathering intelligence on his whereabouts” is the reply.

“It’s not like him to keep a low profile” Aziraphale muses.

“Maybe they trained him better this time.”

“Or increased the paperwork.”

Aziraphale is a little alarmed to find that he can’t sleep with consistent success. Sometimes, he manages quickly, but recently, he finds odd thoughts scrawl around in his mind (How often do humans change the bedsheets? Should he repaint the front door? Why didn’t he take a photo?) staving off the blissful oblivion.

Taking the elderly neighbour to the doctor, however, he discovers, in an article in a dogeared magazine in the waiting room, that disturbed sleeping patterns are common and he is delighted – He’d gotten the human experience more accurately than he’d realised. Proudly, he takes to lamenting his trouble sleeping with friends who recommend all manner of cures, from brisk evening exercise to lavender oil, and he sets aside one evening a week for sleep, determined to try them all.

One human friend reciprocates the dinner parties, hosting one of his own just as the weather switches from hot to summer showers. Aziraphale had almost forgotten how pleasant it can be to enjoy both companionship and someone cooking for you. And if the sauce is a little stewed and the lamb is a little overdone, well, one small miracle won’t hurt.

Walking home in the rain, he realises he left his umbrella behind and decides not to trouble himself with another miracle – tonight is not a sleeping night so he has time to dry off and still read – and instead quickens his pace, fumbling with the key when he gets to the shop.

Inside, the plants are trembling. Aziraphale frowns at them. Do they finally feel relaxed enough to react to the cold? “I can put the heating on for half an hour” he murmurs to them, “but it is July.”

“That’s a thought” a voice responds and Aziraphale feels a bewildering whoosh of hope before reality crashes down again: It couldn’t be.

The voice continues: “I’d forgotten about central heating.”

“Who’s there?” asks Aziraphale, stepping closer. He rounds a high-backed chair to view its occupant.

Crowley grins up at him. “Hello, angel.”

Aziraphale slowly drops to his knees beside the chair. He can’t speak.

Crowley frowns, then proffers a bottle. “I stopped by the offie. Nothing fancy but anything is better than where I’ve been. Alcohol free raves, angel, they’re all the rave in Hell. Sorry – all the rage. Been here drinking for a bit.” He snaps his fingers and sobers, then looks Aziraphale up and down critically. “You’re soaked.” He snaps his fingers again and Aziraphale feels himself dry off. A smile has spread slowly over his face and he feels it widen as he breathes, “Crowley…”

“Yep, at your service.” Crowley waves the bottle again and, when Aziraphale simply stares mutely, sets it down on the floor. “Well not _your_ service, but you know what I mean. How are things? What have you been doing to my plants, by the way?”

Aziraphale glances round for somewhere to sit, brings an armchair skidding towards him through the shop with the wave of a hand. “I um, I’ve been smiling at them.”

“What, the soppy look you’ve got on now? No wonder they’re wilting. I told you not to spoil them.” Behind Crowley, the plants tremble anew.

“How are you back?”

Crowley’s teasing smile mellows. “Same way I left.” He nods to the window, but the road beyond it looks normal now. Crowley adds, “Took a bit of persuasion but you know me and persuasion.”

“Only you could talk your way out of Hell” Aziraphale manages to match the demon’s light tone.

“Well Grimwell helped” Crowley admits. “All those bodies he went through and he was getting less and less keen to go back each time.”

“Is this for good?”

“This is for bad, officially. But also until the end times _if_ – and I quote Beelzebub here – they ever come at all.”

Aziraphale is fairly sure his smile is about to outgrow his face. He struggles to rein it in enough to say, “I’m so glad.”

“Me too” says Crowley shortly. “No greenery anywhere in Hell. It’s not natural.” He leans back in his chair and twists to look at the trembling plants. “I’d almost forgotten the colour, I swear.”

Aziraphale nods sympathetically, then stands up. “Would you like something? I have champagne.”

“I almost forgot the sky. Almost forgot how grass smelled.”

Aziraphale paces around, trying to remember which cupboard he’d left the bottle in. “We should have champagne. Or food – I can cook now.”

“All in good time, angel. Just sit down, will you?” Crowley reaches up as Aziraphale passes and hooks him in, steers him back to the armchair.

Aziraphale forces himself to relax. Smiles again. Then wonders if it is appropriate and stops. Asks, “Are you alright? What did you have to do down there?”

“Paperwork mostly.” Crowley shudders. “And punishing drug dealers. Hence the alcohol free raves.”

“I’ve been to a rave.”

“You haven’t. You? At a rave?”

“I had Pimm’s.” Aziraphale frowns. “I can’t see what appeal there would be without alcohol.”

“Exactly – none. It was torture.”

“You weren’t expected to use, say, torture, as torture?”

“I worked with a wide definition of the term.” Crowley frowns. “Which is possibly another reason they sent me back.”

“And that was all you had to do? Paperwork and raves?”

“Well, and run a course educating demons on modern technology. That was hell! I mean, literally, it was Hell, but it was also incredibly dull and frustrating.”

“But they didn’t…They didn’t hurt you?”

Crowley shakes his head. “They didn’t hurt me. Apart from making me almost forget how sunlight feels. Or the Bentley’s number plate.”

“Why did you want to remember the Bentley’s number plate?”

Crowley shrugs. “Just. Sentimental reasons.” He glances over to the window. “Where is the Bentley, anyway?”

“I totalled it” Aziraphale finds himself deadpanning.

“You what!?”

“Drove it off a cliff. I was escaping the police at the time, so I can’t really be held responsible.” At Crowley’s expression of mounting horror, Aziraphale relents with, “I’m joking. It’s in storage.”

“You’re jok – Good Go – Ghg! Angel, don’t do that to me!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Blessed Manchester, angel, are you telling me you managed to grow a sense of humour?”

“I have been spending more time with humans since you’ve been gone.” Aziraphale admits. He adds, “I learned to sleep.”

“About bloody time.”

“I even have Disturbed Sleep Patterns. I use lavender oil.”

Crowley laughs. “What else is new?”

Aziraphale thinks for a moment. “There’s a constitutional crisis going on. An international economic conference. A new cancer drug that I got a commendation for but I did try to explain the humans did it by themselves. And did I tell you I learned to cook?”

“You might have mentioned it.” Crowley smiles indulgently.

“I went on a course. I do a lovely roast salmon with a herby chermoula dressing if I say so myself.”

“Does this mean you’re not eating out anymore? I’m surprised London’s restaurants have stayed afloat.”

“Oh – there’s a new Sudanese place you’ll like. And the Ritz has a new menu.”

Crowley sits up straighter. “The Ritz has a new menu and you tell me about an international economic conference first?”

“We should go there” Aziraphale says.

“Absolutely” says Crowley. “Now. Tonight.”

“Tomorrow. It’s a little late tonight” decides Aziraphale. “Tonight, I cook for you.”

“You’re on.”

Grinning, Aziraphale leads the way to the little kitchen at the back. “Sit down” he directs and Crowley obediently takes a seat. The breakfast bar is just big enough two.

Aziraphale selects his implements and clears a space. Then he finds himself standing and staring at Crowley.

“What?” asks Crowley. “Did you forget what I looked like?”

“Of course not. It’s only been two years and three weeks.”

“Is that all?” Crowley sounds surprised.

“You didn’t know?”

“No. No clocks in hell. Or, well, there are, but they only show one time.”

“Ah.”

“Less than three years?” Crowley muses, “Felt like longer than that.”

“It did.”

Crowley studies him. “You didn’t forget me, did you? Honestly.”

“Your face got a little blurry. But your voice and your eyes I kept.”

“You let me go blurry!?”

“Well I have been busy, my dear, and somehow we’ve never exchanged photographs!”

“I didn’t let you go blurry” Crowley huffs.

“Really?” challenges Aziraphale. “You almost forget grass and sunlight but you remembered me with perfect clarity?”

“Well, yeah” says Crowley. “I didn’t remember those other things because I was concentrating on remembering you.”

“Oh.”

“Honestly, angel – blurry! Do they still have those photo booths at train stations?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Well then, first thing tomorrow, we cram in one those together. Get some photos of me in all my glory and you squished in next to me.”

“I thought you said you’re here to stay?”

“I am. But if you let me go blurry in two years, Somebody knows how quickly you’ll forget me if I go to sleep for another century.”

“A _little_ blurry” argues Aziraphale. “And it wasn’t two years – it was two years and three weeks.”

Crowley waves a hand. “Who’s counting?”

“I was. I missed you terribly, my dear.”

For a moment, the humour drains from Crowley’s expression and he studies Aziraphale thoughtfully. “I missed you too, angel.”

The moment holds, and then Crowley shifts, grins an easy grin. “So. Are you going to get started, Mr I Can Cook Now?”

“I prefer angel” Aziraphale says, smiling and turning back to the kitchen. He catches sight of his reflection in the little window. Their reflections; the two of them, together.


End file.
